


So Lonely in This Foxhole Where I Am (Merry Christmas From Your Boy in Vietnam)

by gelbes_gilatier



Series: Military Madness [2]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Air Force, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Army, Christmas, Christmas Eve, Drinking, F/M, Het, Holidays, Homesickness, Party, Pilots, Singing, Smoking, Soldiers, Swearing, Vietnam War, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-07
Updated: 2014-01-07
Packaged: 2018-01-07 19:34:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1123582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gelbes_gilatier/pseuds/gelbes_gilatier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vietnam 1966 and Evan Lorne has to cope with not being at home in San Francisco on Christmas Eve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	So Lonely in This Foxhole Where I Am (Merry Christmas From Your Boy in Vietnam)

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, this was supposed to be posted on Christmas Eve but I had a lot of things on my plate during the holidays and well, this is why it took so long for it to get published. It takes place Christmas Eve 1966, between _Forget The Dead You've Left_ and _Lonely Days Are Gone_ from the _Sixteen Proofs of Love_ and well, it became less of a drunken sobfest than I'd original feared it would become so yay!

** So Lonely in This Foxhole Where I Am (Merry Christmas From Your Boy in Vietnam) **

_“Hello Mom, merry Christmas to you_  
Sorry I can't send a gift like I wanted to  
There is no place to buy a gift here where I am  
But I send you all my love from Vietnam  
Christmas morning when you gather around the tree  
When the gifts are passed around think of me  
So lonely in this foxhole where I am  
Merry Christmas from your boy in Vietnam.”   


_The Sullivan Family, “Merry Christmas From Vietnam”_

“Come on,” she says.

“It’s gonna be fun,” she says.

“Everybody will be there,” she says.

And all he can do is stare at the calendar in his office. December 24 1966, it says. It’s been saying that since this morning and he kept thinking _Mom just went off to buy groceries for the big Christmas Day dinner_ and _Uncle Mike just brought in the tree_ and _Anna just arrived with the kids from Berkeley_ all through the day, constantly calculating the time difference between TSN and San Francisco.

“Evaaan,” Laura pleads again, drawing out the A in his name and looking at him with that look that she always has when she really, really wants him to do something for her.

That look that he can just never resist. “Okay, fine. But I’ll have one bottle and then I’m out of there.”

Her eyes light up with glee and she actually does a little bounce. “I _knew_ it. Come on, they’re waiting for us!”

_Anna just took out Toby from his crib to give him a night time feeding._

He lets Laura drag him out of his office where he’d tried to hole up himself until tomorrow evening when the Christmas hysteria was over but of course it wouldn’t get past his girlfriend that he never intended to be part of Le Van Loc’s Christmas party. There’s supposed to be some official to do tomorrow, complete with a little USO show and a tree and some poor company grade in a Santa costume and he knew he couldn’t get out of _this_ one but he’d honestly hoped he’d get out of the _not_ so official party tonight.

Because he just _knows_ that it will end in one big boozy session and he just knows that when he gets drunk tonight, he’ll just get sentimental and maybe even weepy and that’s not what he wants to be in front of all those Marines and soldiers in that damn bar. And Laura. Most of all, that’s not how he wants to be in front of Laura tonight and… “Lighten up, Cookie, no one’s gonna eat you in there, you know.”

He makes a face at that and she just grins and damn, he only realizes now that she really did herself up tonight. No service dress and no jewelry, sure, but she pinned her hair up a bit more fancy than her usual bun in the nape and there’s just a touch of make up in her face and suddenly, that’s making him just a bit woozy. And just the tiniest bit horny, fuck it. “You know, Laura, how about we go somewhere a little more…”

“Oh no, you’re not getting out of this by trying to seduce me, Mister.” Dammit, he wasn’t trying to seduce her to get out of having to go to that booze fest, he was trying to seduce her because he _really wants to sleep with her_ right now. But before he can even get to tell her about it, she opened the door to the damn club and shoved him inside and _holy fucking shit is that Thomas Moore singing a really off-key version of Good Vibrations on the stage_?

“Ah, looks like the USO made a mistake with setting up the equipment for tomorrow already,” is all that Laura says in a dead-pan voice, barely audible over the racket the club’s patrons are making and good God, it’s sounding as if they’re actually _cheering Moore on_. The idiot is butchering a perfectly good Beach Boys song and those morons are _cheering him on_?

He turns to Laura, still a bit in shock. “Just _how_ drunk is everyone in this joint?”

She grins. “What do you think?” Not waiting for his answer, though, she grabs him by his sleeve and drags him with her again, wrestling their way towards their usual spot at the bar. Except Moore, who’s still on the stage, doing unspeakable things to the poor Good Vibrations, everyone is there, even Sheppard’s diplomat friend and… what are his Sergeants doing here?

He frowns. “Excuse me, gentlemen but… _how_ did you get in here?”

It’s Meyers who answers, white teeth gleaming as his dark face lights up in a typical Meyers grin. “Easy, sir. We waited until we could be sure that everyone was crocked or high enough that they wouldn’t care what new arrivals are wearing in their collars and then got in. Took us only an hour.”

And here he’d thought he was the only one desperate to forget that out in the world, it’s the day before the night before Christmas. He nods. “Impressive, Sergeant.” He nearly adds “Just don’t come running as soon as someone finds out you’re not supposed to be in here and makes a fuss about it” but it would just be empty promises because he sure as hell wouldn’t be standing by idly if anyone thought they could lay a hand on his Sergeants and both Meyers and McPherson know it.

He also doesn’t say anything about the relief about seeing Meyers so relaxed in his presence because ever since the incident with Baker, he’d been afraid that the good rapport he’d build with his medic had gone down the drain, even after they’d had a serious talk on the issue and it’s good to see that at least for this one evening, things seem to be just fine.

And holy crap, can Moore _please_ stop massacring a fine piece of pop music? He makes a face. “Okay, who of you let him to go up there and do _that_?”

“No one _lets_ Thomas Moore do anything, sir, I thought you knew that by now.” That was Maureen Reece, smirking and taking a sip from a bottle of beer and still managing to keep a certain elegance to it, despite wearing jungle greens and her hair in her usual, a bit messy ponytail.

But still, he can’t believe that everyone just sat idly by when Moore got up to do that and thank _God_ the song is slowly coming to an end. Hopefully, no one will demand an encore. “Don’t tell me none of you got up and at least _tried_ to keep him from doing it. Not even _you_ , DeLisle?” Because if _anyone_ knows _not_ to let Thomas Moore close to a microphone and a stage, it should be his co-pilot, goddammit.

DeLisle, however, just shakes his head. “Nope, sir. Entertainment value is too big to ignore.” How that guy can say anything like that completely straight faced will forever be beyond his capability to understand.

He shakes his head. “Honestly, I can’t believe…”

“Oh, come on, CWO, it’s our turn.” Huh, what?

Why are Sheppard and DeLisle getting up and making their way over to the stage just when Moore is finally finishing up? “It’s Air Force hour now, sir.” Huh? What? What is Simmons saying? And why did anyone allow Sheppard to lay his hands on a guitar? Even tuning it sounds terrible. “We kind of struck up a deal with the Army guys a while back, to keep the Navy and the Marines off the stage.”

He still doesn’t quite get it, so Laura seems to feel the need to barge in, while he can see Moore wrestling his way back through a bunch of regulars, some Army aviators flying Chinooks, clapping him on the back. “We’re taking turns so we won’t have to endure more of the boring shanties and that gung ho Halls of Montezuma shit than absolutely necessary and our guys gotta be fast if they want to be on the stage before the fish heads and the leathernecks.”

Right. Uh-huh. Makes sense. What _doesn’t_ make sense, though, is, “You _knew_ about this?”

“Course she did,” Moore answers for Laura, gesturing towards Reece’s beer bottle so signal the barkeep, “why do you think she appeared in your office, Mr. Jolly Green Giant?”

Goddammit, Moore.

“ _Maybe_ because I wanted my boyfriend to stop sulking in the dump that is his office building and spend the night before Christmas with his friends, _sir_?” Whoa, Laura, way to be fierce and intimidating and _totally fucking hot_ , he thinks and gives Moore only an incurious shrug when his Academy buddy glares at him, as if to say “Don’t get me involved in this, fight it out with _her_.”

And God, can’t someone take that poor guitar from Sheppard’s hands and give it to someone who actually _knows_ how to play Dylan? Like a Rolling Stone absolutely does not deserve this. But DeLisle’s skill with a mouth organ is astonishingly good. Huh.

“Ma’am?” Mh? Oh, Reece addressing Sheppard’s diplomat. “Can I ask you a question?”

The woman – what was her name? Weir? Wallace? – turns her head from the stage - where Sheppard is trying to give an accurate impression of Dylan’s rather… _special_ voice and interpretation of one of his best songs yet and well, let’s say that Dylan definitely does it better – and looks encouragingly at Reece. “Of course, Captain. What’s the matter?”

Reece looks a little uncomfortable for a moment but then he sees Moore gently nudging her foot from his bar stool and she straightens to say, “Why didn’t we keep him from choosing Dylan again?”

The diplomat laughs and then says, gesturing with her martini glass towards the stage, “Believe me, no one gets between John and his Dylan.” Then she looks a little thoughtful and adds, “Or Cash, for that matter. Be glad he let me talk him out of _that_ , really.”

Okay, so he knows that Sheppard is a bit of a Johnny Cash devotee, but… he’s not sure if he’d really like to hear him sing anything by the guy after hearing what he’s doing to Dylan – whom _he_ actually likes quite a bit – so yes, he’s pretty grateful that there’s _someone_ able to keep a bit of a leash on him.

God, the only thing making that song that Sheppard is trying to play bearable is DeLisle and his mouth organ and the genuine talent he seems to have for it. But whatever, “God, I need a fucking drink.”

“Already taken care of, sir.” Well, Bob McPherson quietly accommodating as always and oh, that is a very good scotch they made the barkeep pour for him.

_Felix just climbed into Anna’s bed to ask her if Santa is going to bring them back Daddy._

Jesus fucking Christ, he needs more than just one measly drink if he can really still keep up subconsciously calculating and thinking about the things that might happen at his childhood home in the middle of the night on December 23, going on the morning of December 24. Downing the scotch in one go and having it immediately followed by a second one, he almost doesn’t notice how Sheppard and DeLisle finish up with one last mouth organ solo and Reece murmurs “Ah, shit, it’s my turn,” next to him before walking up to the stage.

When he hears the intro to These Boots Are Made For Walkin’, he nearly chokes on his third scotch – not downing it this time, just a sip because he could just see Laura’s worried face and he hates when he makes her look like that – because of the _look_ on Moore’s face. By now, the temperature in the room is starting to reach boiling point and so are the vibes in the audience. She’s damn good at that song, even if it’s just a bit off-key but she’s _working_ the crowd and seriously, this is not what he’d have given her credit for only a minute ago.

But God, that look of serious unease and ill-humor on Moore’s face is just _priceless_. So, naturally, the first thing he says is, “Did _you_ know that your flight nurse is a veritable Nancy Sinatra double?”

“Just shut up,” Moore just says, almost through clenched teeth and pays his bottle of beer an exceptional amount of attention. He’s surprised that he also just saw a look of genuine amusement on DeLisle’s face, behind Moore’s back, of course.

Laura, on his other side, grins with a certain amount of pride. “ _I_ knew that.” Huh? She keeps grinning and he’s almost sure that behind his back, Moore is looking just as surprised as he is. “Girls’ poker night at the Air Force nurses’ hooch. But psht, what happens at the girls’ poker night stays at the girls’ poker night.”

Right. Girls’ poker night. Maybe he should get back to escorting her back to her _actual_ billet in the city again. She’s getting a little bit too cozy with the Air Force nurses and that just can’t be good.

“You know…” he starts but Reece just finished her number and _is she beckoning him_? Oh God, yes, she means _him_ and…

“Go on, flyboy. Take that stage like a fucking boss,” oh great, she really meant that and the only thing Laura does is fucking _encourage_ him. But he can’t sing. Seriously, he couldn’t sing even if his fucking _life_ depended on it and _could Reece please stop with the fucking waving and mouthing_? And _why_ is Laura leaning in close enough that he can feel her breath grace his ear… “Listen, Cookie. If you go up there now, you can be sure to get a nice early Christmas present tonight at the nurses’ hooch. I’ll even sacrifice some of the fresh Lucky Strikes in my room to bribe the guards so you don’t have to sneak in through a window.” Oh, _that_ is why she was leaning in.

And God, either it’s the three scotches and half a bottle of beer that make him actually put one foot in front of the other towards that damned stage or the very vivid images Laura’s whispered promise just put into his mind but only five minutes later – the Army aviators are _very_ drunk and _very_ friendly tonight – he finds himself up on the stage with a mic in his hand and has _no_ idea what to sing when his gaze falls on Laura again.

She’s still standing at the bar, a glass of that disgusting gin and tonic that she’s so fond of in her hand, her head thrown back in laughter about something Moore must have said. Her cheeks are reddened and he knows that little strands of hair are plastered against her neck, wet with sweat because of the fucking heat in this joint and she’s making those wonderful little gestures with the hand he’d pictured a ring on once or twice in the last weeks and the only song that comes to his mind is, “Poetry in Motion.”

From the Army drummer and guitarist in his back, he only gets clueless looks, until Reece, who’s still on the stage, prompts them with a “Johnny Tillotson, 1960,” and he’s kind of impressed that she didn’t say Bobby Vee instead of the original artist. The guys at the drums and guitars look like they get her, too but one of them points out that there should be a saxophone in the piece and that they don’t know anyone in here who can play it. And then Reece actually goes, “I could try.”

A little taken aback, he frowns at her and she shrugs. “I used to play the oboe from primary school all through college. It’s not that different.”

Right. Deciding that he won’t go digging any further, he just nods at her and the guys at the other instruments, clears his throat and when he starts singing, “When I see my baby, what do I see…” it’s _definitely_ the alcohol that makes him continue, even if all he wants is to alternately throw away the mic in disgust and laugh his fucking _ass_ off.

Okay, that and the way Laura is beaming at him through the entire room and blushing bad enough that he can see it even from up here and laughing all the time, all through “poetry in motion, walking by my side” and “I love every movement, there’s nothing I would change” and “a flower of devotion, a-swaying gracefully” and damn, he can’t believe he’s actually crooning the stuff into the mic and that’s it’s so much damn _fun_ doing it, too.

He can’t believe that Reece is remarkably good with a sax, either. She doesn’t quite hit every note but it doesn’t sound half bad and he’s pretty sure that it’s her show talent and her enthusiasm that keep the crowds cheering and whistling and cat calling, not his caterwauling. So at least he gets through this as fast as possible and before he knows it, the song is over and he actually makes a big gesture towards Reece, with the words, “Ladies and gentlemen, the amazing Captain Maureen Reece, Air Force Nurse Corps!” and the dark look of jealousy on Moore’s face is so damn funny that he nearly chokes on suppressed laughter.

Just make your damn move, you moron, he thinks not for the first time while moving back through the throng of Army aviators, after having practically ordered Simmons on the stage and suddenly he’s back at the bar and Laura’s standing in front of him, grinning and well, Simmons can’t start his song for another five minutes because the joint goes nuts when he grabs her around the waist, hoists her up on the bar stool behind her and she starts kissing him like there’s no tomorrow.

She even does the thing with burying her hands in his hair that he loves so much and wraps her legs around his hips and he’d probably have gone on kissing her the entire evening if he hadn’t heard the distinctly annoyed voice of Thomas Moore growling, “Just get a fucking _room_ , you two,” next to him.

He really doesn’t know if it’s the alcohol or the kissing or the heat but he can’t help saying, “How about _you_ get yourself one?”

And there we go. Either he’s too drunk or Reece and Moore aren’t drunk enough yet but apparently, _they_ don’t find their furious blushing and uncomfortable shifting around as hilarious as he does. At least Laura agrees, snorting and giggling and kissing him again, just for good measure before he turns around to watch Simmons stumble his way through what is supposed to be A Fool Never Learns. Fitting choice, somehow, he thinks while Laura’s putting her arms around his shoulders from behind and drawing him closer to put a kiss on his cheek.

They stay like that all through the song and he’s alternately sipping from his bottle of beer, sharing a cig with Laura and trying not to make out with her in front of his superior again. It’s truly never been harder before.

_Mom just got up because she can’t stop thinking about Dad and it’s making it impossible for her to stay in bed any minute longer._

Ah, shit. And here he’d thought that with enough booze, he could make his inner homesick California boy shut the fuck up. Fucking hell. Maybe concentrating on picking on Simmons about his sappy little performance can help, he thinks but he doesn’t even get to attempt it because as soon as Simmons is on the last notes of his song, suddenly Weir pushes herself off the counter she’d been leaning against and walks up to the stage. Amazing how the crowd of Army aviators suddenly parts like the Red Sea for her.

“God, I wish I had that much class,” he can hear Laura sigh into his ear with genuine longing and instead of razing Simmons, he reaches behind him with his hand to gently pull her head down and turns around to her to kiss her. Sheppard only has eyes for Weir right now, anyway.

He makes it quick but worth it anyway, before he says, “You, Lieutenant, are a class all on your own.”

She wants to reply something but Moore’s faster, practically barging in with, “You ever wanted to learn how to charm women into submission, Simmons, you just gotta watch your CO. Smooth as fuck, that man is,” with a bit of a slur and with sarcasm enough to practically drip on the floor.

“You know, Tom,” Reece says, leaning on the counter on her elbows next to Moore, sure as hell invading his personal space on purpose, “one day that big mouth of yours probably _will_ get you killed, after all.”

Laura snorts. “Only probably? More like damn straight it will.” Well, it’s not like she’s _wrong_ in that. “But first of all, how about I _beat_ you into submission, _Major_ Moore?”

Whoa, Laura, you’re definitely getting no more hard alcohol, he wants to say but Sheppard beats him to it, throwing in a half-hearted, “Don’t make me separate you, kids,” and never taking off his eyes off Weir giving a quite convincing if a bit boozy performance of Que Sera, Sera. God, _why_ can’t people just make their damn _moves_?

He just shakes his head, taking another sip from his bottle of beer, watching how Weir works the crowd as nearly as well as Reece did, only in a more… elegant way. She gives off the right notes of femininity and wisdom to pull off a show almost as convincingly as if it were Doris Day herself on that stage but that’s really all he can put together because the rest of his concentration is lingering somewhere else than his head with Laura still leaning her arms on his shoulders and putting kisses on his cheek from behind. Damn, should just have grabbed her and found a quiet place to undo that hair and uniform with her.

 _Anna just got up because she could never sleep past seven after getting married to Charlie. He never,_ never _slept longer than 0700._

For a second or two, a terrible wave of homesickness and guilt sweeps over him. A feeling of _I should be there I should be taking care of them I should never have let it come so far_ and it nearly makes him physically ill. What astounds him, though is that it seems like Laura notices  it, tightening her arms around his shoulders and nestling her head against his, nuzzling the crook of his neck… and nearly missing Weir calling her to the stage because apparently the rest of the Army pack are too drunk to walk in a straight line, let alone climb the stage.

He can feel her hesitate and the urge to keep her with him, bury himself in her to make all the longing for home and the guilt _go away_ nearly overtakes him but he just _knows_ that she’d hate herself later for being responsible for all of them being exposed to at least an hour of What Shall We Do With The Drunken Sailor, Anchors Aweigh and the Marine Corps hymn. He just nods at her, trying to tell her that he’ll be alright.

After another moment of hesitation and him telling her “Give ‘em fucking hell, Crackers,” she finally gets up and walks over to that stage – or more like saunters over with a few very sexy tipsy sidesteps – and maybe the sea of Army aviators doesn’t part for her like it did for Weir but they leave her the hell alone, some even with terrified expressions in their faces and if that is good enough for her, it’s hella good enough for him.

It’s only when the first notes of Be My Baby drift through the room and he has to tear his gaze away from the stage for a tiny moment to avoid letting her see the way his face probably just lit up deep pink that he sees his Sergeants nod at him with a kind of understanding in their faces that nearly scares him. They _saw_ that fucking moment and they _knew_ what was happening and he really can’t decide whether that’s a good or a terrifying thing that they’re able to read him as easily as that. At least Simmons doesn’t seem to have noticed anything, being wedged firmly between Reece and Moore, having to listen to Moore giving him advice on women.

For a moment, his natural MedEvac pilot instinct to rescue and protect kicks in but then Reece just rolls her eyes and makes a gesture first towards DeLisle and then to herself tell him that they’ve got the situation in hand and he believes her. If _anyone_ can say of themselves that have anything about Thomas Moore in hand, it’s DeLisle and Reece. And… that came out all wrong. _Maybe_ he should stop with the drinking for today.

It also doesn’t give him any more excuses not to look back at the stage because it’s either that or watching Sheppard and Weir trying to make out with nothing but looking at each other in a weird intensive way and he’d take looking at his girlfriend over looking at people just too dumb to make their moves any day.

And damn, she’s good.

Alright, so he may be a bit biased and he’s pretty sure that she’ll never make it into any of the USO shows because you know, her singing talent really doesn’t extend that far but she’s obviously trying to match him in the crooning department when she sings “You know I will adore you 'til eternity,” and it’s ridiculous just _how_ well that works on him.

He doesn’t even mind the rest of the joint going nuts over her performance – _much,_ at least – like he’d usually mind men catcalling her and whistling at her and leering at her in the way they’re doing now because he _knows_ that she knows how to defend herself and he knows how he’d never see the light of day again if he went in for any pre-emptive strikes at idiot Army men and moron sailors and asshole Marines.

Also, they might all think that she’s singing that for them but he knows, just _knows_ that “Be my, be my baby, my one and only baby,” is for him and _only_ him, although she doesn’t even _look_ at him, except that for that one last verse and there’d have probably been a repeat of that fucking Kiss Of Gone With The Wind Proportions if Moore hadn’t grabbed his sleeve and dragged him towards the stage.

“What the fucking _hell_ …” is as far as he gets and then suddenly he’s back on that damn stage again and well, since he’s here, at least he can give Laura that kiss telling her that damn, he’s never gonna be anyone else’s baby if she’d just have him.

Jesus fucking Christ. Definitely, _definitely_ time to stop drinking or he’ll do something _really_ stupid.

The concentration it takes for him to break off the kiss with Laura and _not_ drop down on one knee is enough that he doesn’t realize that they’re cheering again at first. And nearly misses the mic that Moore just tossed him with the words, “Great Balls of Fire, and don’t mess it up Lorne.”

That, at least, sobers him up disgustingly fast. The fucking song had been kind of their “thing” at the Academy, having been released ’57 and it had always been Moore and him who’d done the singing and Charlie at the piano. Charlie Williamson, the genuinely unbelievably rich kid from an ages old Nantucket family that never even told them about his upbringing until he was drunk enough one evening during the second summer that he spent at the Casa de Lorne to start playing Grandpa’s old piano in the corner by the window. Charlie Williamson who didn’t even _try_ to make Anna Lorne fall in love with him, and still only ever played for one person when he was sober, and that was Anna.

He feels sick all of a sudden. “Tom, I can’t…”

“Oh yes,” Moore says, sounding scarily sober himself suddenly, “you fucking can.”

No. Not in a million years. No way in fucking hell. “We don’t even have a decent piano, player. I’m not gonna…”

“Maybe _I_ can be of assistance, sir.” Holy shit, where in God’s fucking name did Meyers just come from? Did he fucking _beam_ himself next to him?

He’s about to ask something in that direction when Moore beats him to it, looking very serious and not to be in a joking mood at all, saying in a strangely somber soft voice, “Come on, Evan. For Charlie.”

For a moment, his voice is gone but after a second or two, at least he manages a, “For Charlie,” and a nod and Meyers walks over to the piano, straightening himself, cracking his fingers and then giving them such a striking intro that he can’t do anything but join Moore when he starts singing, “You shake my nerves and you rattle my brain…”

They practically _slide_ their way through the song and even though Meyers’ relaxed and sometimes improvised style is completely different from Charlie’s well measured, disciplined playing, even through a song like that, for a few short frightening wonderful minutes it’s as if Charlie’s right there with them. It’s as if they’re twenty-two again, drunk off their asses at their unofficial graduation party downtown Colorado Springs and Charlie’s sitting at the piano, Anna half in his lap with her shiny new engagement ring on her finger and they all feel as if nothing could ever hurt them, as if they were invincible.

It makes him so happy that he nearly cries, just for a moment or two.

He _will_ deny that until the end of his days, though, and it kind of reassures him to see the same kind of thing in Moore’s eyes when they let loose their last “Goodness gracious, _great_ balls of fire,” and the audience goes into a riot.

They nearly don’t let them off the stage but suddenly, he feels damn tired and he can see the same in Moore and maybe even a bit in Meyers and he wonders what made his Sergeant volunteer piano skills he never even hinted at in that exact moment. He makes a mental note to ask him while he fights his way back to bar.

When they’re back, Laura welcomes him with a smile and a short kiss and he smiles back at her, saying, “I think I’ll call it a night, Crackers.”

She looks at him and he can see that she’s definitely not sober, having downed at least another glass of hard liquor when he was on the stage but something in her eyes tells him that she knows _exactly_ what he’s talking about. So he’s not really surprised when she says, “I think I’m gonna escort you back to your quarters.”

And that, somehow, is kind of a secret signal for all of them including DeLisle and Sheppard and the Sergeants to pay for their drinks and leave the joint. Okay, or _maybe_ it’s that Jennifer Keller just took the stage to present a rendition of A Groovy Kind of Love that sounds just a tad high.

Either way, when he steps out of the club into the night, he’s glad to leave the joint. In reality it’s probably not much cooler outside but compared to the hothouse inside the club, the night air appears to be almost fresh and he’s not the only one taking a deep breath outside. Their little group breaks up only moments after that but at least he gets the opportunity to thank Meyers for stepping up for their last song and for the first time ever since the Baker incident, he has a feeling that their professional and personal relationship might be salvageable, after all.

In the end, the only people left are Reece, Moore, Laura and him and it’s pretty obvious that the evening took a toll on Moore, after all. All the sobriety he’d shown only minutes ago made way for leaning heavily on Reece’s shoulders and drunkenly apologizing to her for giving her boozy trouble again. He’s tempted to offer her to take care of this but she just smiles at him in a pained way, telling him once again that she can handle it.

He’s got his own drunk soldier to take care of anyway, so all he does is put an arm around Laura’s waist and let her drape one around his and slowly, they make their way over to the female BOQs. It surprises him a little that Reece never hesitates to go for the same direction but after Moore’s last escapade only two weeks earlier, she’d told him that she’d prefer the hassling with the guards outside the women’s quarters to leaving him to himself in the men’s quarters and he’d refrained from questioning her medical expertise ever again. She damn well knows what she’s doing and he should just respect that.

It takes them about halfway through until Laura suddenly slurs, “Evan?”

“Mh?” is all he grunts, taking care not to let her fall and have an eye on Reece and Moore at the same time.

She clears her throat and for a moment he’s afraid that she’ll throw up but all that happens is her saying, “I just want to tell you… Iiii…” and never really getting any further as that.

So he feels himself being called to prod her on with a, “Yes?”

She’s silent for a few more minutes, until suddenly stopping and straightening herself. It surprises him, most of all because she goes as far as making sure that she’s looking him in the eye when she says, “I, err…” Yes? “I…” What? “Iii… want to wish you a _very_ merry Christmas, Major Fortune Cookie.”

Right. For a moment, he’d actually thought that she’d say it. Say the three words. Say the words they haven’t said to each other yet, probably won’t say ever. But it doesn’t really surprise him that she doesn’t, in the end. What really surprises him is the stupid emotion feeling almost like disappointment that is his first reaction. He tries not to let her see it when he smiles at her and kisses her and tells her, “Yeah. Right back at you, Lieutenant Crackers.”

Reece, who dragged Moore a few steps further and then waited there, looks very much like she knows exactly what just happened when he catches up with her, pulling Laura along. She doesn’t say anything, though, and his respect for her goes up another notch. While, you know, his assessment of Moore’s intelligence goes down another one. Goddamn idiot is missing out on all of that, and probably for all the wrong reasons, too.

They make it back to the nurses’ hooches and it even only takes them a minimal amount of hassling until the guards let them through. They never do get Laura and Moore to their respective quarters, because let’s face it, both Reece and he are drunk, too. Not as badly as Laura and Moore but drunk enough to not get up again after sitting down “only for a few minutes, to sort out whom to take where” and end up sitting at the back end of one of the hooches, both staring up at the sky in silent, their respective partners next to them left and right.

_Uncle Mike just took Mom and Anna and the kids to the beach to commemorate Dad’s plane crash. Anna’s eyes look puffy because she spent the night crying for Charlie. Felix is grumpy. Toby is wailing. Mom is trying to keep them all together. The beach is cold and deserted._

And suddenly, there’s this one thing that he only realizes just now.

On December 24 1966, there’s no place he’d rather be than Tan Son Nhut Air Base with Laura lightly snoring off the alcohol leaning against his left side and Moore sleeping with his head in Maureen Reece’s lap on the other. He lights one of Laura’s cigarettes and takes a draw before handing it over to Reece and for a moment, they’re sharing a knowing grin that says a thousand words.

Then she says, “Merry Christmas, sir,” without any irony or sarcasm in her voice, just a little half-smile that somehow tells him that he just got a look at the real Maureen Reece, the one behind the professional façade of a flight nurse and an officer.

Which is probably why he finds himself smiling back and replying, “Merry Christmas, Captain,” just as earnestly and he realizes this one thing: these people, Laura and Reece and Moore and everyone up to Sheppard and Weir, they’re just as much his family and his home and he needs to be there for them just as much as he needs to be there for his family out in the world.

And that family, that’s where you’re supposed to celebrate Christmas, after all, so he’s going to make the best out of it and never tell his blood family out in the world about it. What else can you do when you realize that there is no other way that, no other place where you’d rather want to spend Christmas 1966 than TSN Air Base, Vietnam, after all?


End file.
